<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Gift of Anticipation by mille_libri</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28076847">The Gift of Anticipation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri'>mille_libri</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gosford Park (2001)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:16:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,375</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28076847</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Robert Parks," he said, and Jane Wilson knew her life would never be the same.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Day 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thus far, it had been a perfectly normal day. Busier than many, preparing for the arrival of the guests and the upheaval it always created downstairs, but Jane Wilson was used to that. She was prepared; her staff was prepared. There should be minimal incident.</p>
<p>Of course, it would have been nicer had it not been raining, but nothing could be done about that. They would have to let people track the dirt and mud in and clean up afterward, as best they could amongst their other duties.</p>
<p>Lady Trentham had a new maid again, green and scared, but that had been anticipated and planned for. Elsie would look after her, answer her questions, take her under her wing a bit. Elsie was a bit forward and in many ways no better than she should be, but she was also a decent sort who knew her job. She would be helpful to the new maid and steer her in the right direction.</p>
<p>It was a relief when the last car pulled up outside and the last pair of maid and valet came in. Lord Stockbridge had a new valet, it seemed. A young man, tall and good-looking. Too much so. Jane hoped he wouldn’t be a problem. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar, but then all these young people looked like each other to her these days.</p>
<p>She pointed him in the right direction to put the guns away and was already thinking about something else when he gave her his name, his real name, not the one he would use down here. He said it casually. As though it meant nothing.</p>
<p>But ‘Parks’ meant something to her. And ‘Robert Parks’ meant something more. Elizabeth was passing as he said it, and both of them were caught by it, stopping in their tracks to watch his tall, broad-shouldered figure walk away. Not that Elizabeth said anything. She never said anything. But she had heard it, Jane could see she had.</p>
<p>Of all the people, in all the places, it couldn’t be—but he was the right age, and he looked so … Jane hurried after him, forgetting her dignity, and her carefully planned schedule, in her need to know. “Mr. Parks?”</p>
<p>He was curious, this Robert Parks, looking into all the rooms as he passed them, so it was easy to catch up to him. He stopped when she called his name, looking down at her with polite interest.</p>
<p>“Mr. Parks, below stairs you’ll be known as ‘Mr. Stockbridge’. But … Parks, I knew a Mr. Parks who was in service in Norwich,” she said, hastily making up the lie. “Is he any relation to you?”</p>
<p>“No, I’m from London. Born and bred.”</p>
<p>London. London, where he would have been adopted into a good family. A good home. She wanted to ask him, but one didn’t go around asking other people’s servants about their family, and it wasn’t possible anyway, and she had a thousand things to do.</p>
<p>“All right, Mr. Stockbridge, the gun room is just there.”</p>
<p>He murmured a thank you and disappeared into the gun room, and Jane went off the other direction, forcing herself to put Robert Parks, both child and adult, from her mind in order to focus on her duties. Time enough to think later. Except—he really did look well, didn’t he? So tall and handsome. A boy any mother might be proud of.<br/>_________________________________________________________________________________________________<br/>She ran into him again as he was coming out from putting the guns away. She couldn’t keep away from him, too curious, wanting to watch his face and see if she recognized anything in it, a look, a trick of speech … anything.</p>
<p>Glimpsing Elsie coming down the stairs, Jane caught at the first excuse she could. “Elsie? Elsie, this is Lord Stockbridge’s valet.” Without thinking, she put her hand on his arm as she maneuvered him in Elsie’s direction. Lady Trentham’s mousy little maid was there, too, but Jane barely noticed her as she gave Elsie her instructions. “He’s new to the house, so show him around, will you?” She turned to Robert Parks and could not stop herself from looking him up and down, unable to believe it was him and yet still unable to convince herself it wasn’t. “You’ll be sharing with Mr. Weissman’s man,” she told him, and moved off before she could make any more of a fool of herself. She wondered if Elsie had noticed that hand on his arm. Jane never touched the other servants—it was beneath her dignity. She had to keep her place.</p>
<p>“Has His Lordship’s luggage gone up?” Elsie was asking as Jane went around the three of them.</p>
<p>“Supposedly,” Robert answered her. “He’s in the Tapestry Room, wherever that is.”</p>
<p>As far from his wife as he could be put, Jane could have told him. But no doubt as Lord Stockbridge’s valet, he knew all about that.</p>
<p>The irony of putting him into Elsie’s hands, Elsie who was carrying on a barely discreet affair with the man Jane strongly suspected was Robert Parks’ father, was not lost on her. Still, it meant Robert wouldn’t be tempted into anything this weekend, as Elsie knew where her bread was buttered. And she was good at her job, not as crisp as Jane would have liked, but competent, so he would get things right. Jane was anxious that he should. A valet already at his age! Not that Lord Stockbridge was a particularly prestigious sort to work for, but a man could always move up in the world if he proved himself.<br/>______________________________________________________________________________________________________<br/>When she came into dinner, she was startled to see Robert Parks seated at her right. She shouldn’t have been; it was his place in order of precedence. But she hadn’t thought ahead for once, hadn’t anticipated that.</p>
<p><i>You’re slipping, Jane</i>, she told herself sternly, even as she was greeting the assembled group of servants, all of whom were quietly standing behind their chairs waiting for her. <i>You’re better than this.</i></p>
<p>But she kept her head slightly turned from him, letting the neat curtain of her hair swing in front of her eye so she couldn’t look up at him. Out of the corner of the other eye, she saw Elizabeth closing the door on her side of the hall, looking across at Jane for a moment before she turned away. Jane burned with that look. Was it her fault her boy was alive and suddenly here in these halls? Was it her fault that she had forced William to give Elizabeth her job back, all those years ago? Someday she would have to be forgiven for it all, she thought despairingly. She had never meant any harm.</p>
<p>Jane let none of that show on her face. Long years of training kept her thoughts hidden even as she murmured the words of the grace along with the other servants.</p>
<p>At last they could take their seats. The meal would be rushed so that they could all finish before they had to serve the more elaborate dinner upstairs. Jane always found it ironic that so much more work went into the upstairs meals, and they were appreciated so much less. </p>
<p>Mr. Jennings began filling plates, handing them around the table, and Jane tried to ignore the presence of Robert Parks at her elbow lest she begin asking him all the questions she wanted to ask. Where did you grow up? Who were your parents? Were they good to you? Did your mother sing to you, rock you to sleep …</p>
<p>No. That was all quite inappropriate. And she was only guessing, anyway, she reminded herself. Parks was not an uncommon name. Neither was Robert.</p>
<p>As everyone was beginning to eat, the American’s valet had a question. Something wrong with him, Jane thought. Not Scottish, to be sure. The accent was too thick. Ridiculous. And not familiar with the workings of a great house. Lady Trentham’s maid wasn’t, either, but you could see that she was new and overwhelmed. Mr. Weissman’s man seemed too confident, cocky, almost, despite his lack of knowledge. And the question—he asked how many at the table had parents in service, and if that had affected their choice to go into service themselves. An odd question … and decidedly not usual practice belowstairs, where that type of curiosity was reserved only for those you had come to know quite well.</p>
<p>Mr. Jennings had everyone whose parents were in service raise their hands. Parks kept his down. He seemed to be elsewhere, his thoughts far away, uninterested in what was happening at the table. Only when Mr. Weissman’s valet asked him directly did he turn his head toward the rest of the table.</p>
<p>“What about you, Mr. Stockbridge? What’s the matter, don’t you know?”</p>
<p>There was a pause, one that said plainly how disinterested Parks was in the conversation. “Yeah, I know what they did. But it didn’t have any effect on me, on my choice of work.”</p>
<p>Before she could stop herself, Jane asked, “And why is that?”</p>
<p>“Because I grew up in an orphanage,” he told her. He wasn’t ashamed of it, that was evident, but he would have preferred not to talk of it. She was almost sorry she had asked. No, she was sorry she had asked. She would have liked to have gone on not knowing. She was frozen, the spoon still in her hand, the bowl of salad hovering above her plate, in the silence that followed his admission.</p>
<p>Then she put it away, in the box where she kept things that she could only think about when she was entirely alone. But even as she prosaically spooned salad greens onto her plate, she was certain of it, every heartbeat crying out that this was her boy, her son. </p>
<p>It was sweet beyond words to turn and hand the bowl to him, dinner with her boy, and agony at the same time, because it might have been, if she had made different choices.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Mr. Weissman. You’ve given us all something to think about it,” Mr. Jennings said with finality, closing the subject. There was little time to talk at dinner, too much yet to be done for the night.</p>
<p>Her ladyship appeared halfway through the meal to discuss the unusual diet of the American, who didn’t eat meat. By rights, she should have gone to the other side of the hallway and spoken to Elizabeth, but she was too frightened to do so. It always amused Jane that Lady Sylvia was too intimidated by the women who ran her house to give orders. Everything was done as she required … but very little was done as she wanted. It was Mrs. Croft and Mrs. Wilson’s house, and she merely lived in it.</p>
<p>Yes, very amusing, Jane thought, making it clear to her ladyship that she was behind the times and everything had already been managed. She felt better after that, more sure of herself and who she was and the choices she had made.</p>
<p>Her ladyship asked which of the new servants was Mr. Weissman’s valet, and it didn’t escape Jane’s notice that her eyes lingered on Robert Parks, clearly hoping it was him. But Mr. Weissman’s man wasn’t bad to look at—although not as handsome as Robert, Jane thought with a whole new type of pride she had never felt before—and there was a relief in knowing that whatever trouble might be in store for Robert Parks, a dalliance with her ladyship wasn’t going to be part of it. That would be far too sadly ironic.<br/>__________________________________________________________________________________________________________<br/>Later, Jane sat in her own room trying to make sense of it all in her head. She was used to having control over her emotions, not caring particularly about anything that might happen in a day’s work, but today … Of all the people to come into her tidy, well-ordered little kingdom, it should be her son.</p>
<p>Her son.</p>
<p>She repeated the words to herself in wonder, watching herself say them in the mirror to know that they were true. And what a fine-looking man he was, so tall and sure of himself. Arrogant, really, and something about that disquieted Jane. He was too confident for a servant, too controlled and self-contained. She should know—she had the same qualities, and she was a servant only because she chose to be. For reasons of her own.</p>
<p>Now, what reasons would Robert Parks have to become a servant? It was a decent life, to be sure, good wages if you could be taken on by a man such as Lord Stockbridge, and you were well taken care of. But Robert Parks didn’t strike Jane as someone who wanted to be taken care of. No, something was off there, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.</p>
<p>People were moving about outside her door, up and down the stairs above her head. Always a bit of an upheaval during a house party, but this was more than usual.</p>
<p>Lady Trentham’s little maid, too frightened and out of her element to say ‘boo’, was just going up the stairs. They spoke for a moment about the marmalade for the morning, but Jane already knew the answer; she had merely needed to hear herself say it out loud.</p>
<p>Then he came along. Sir William. Robert’s father. It was hard for Jane to remember what she had ever seen in him, fat and crude and unpleasant as he was—and devastating to think that it was because of this man that she had lost her son … and her sister, for all that she lived across the hall.</p>
<p>Still, it amused her that Sir William, crude and low-born as he was, felt so much more comfortable with servants, giving orders, than Lady Sylvia, to the manor born though she was. </p>
<p>Sir William went off, and Jane closed her door. She forced herself to think on her usual lines, going over the schedule for tomorrow and what needed to be done, considering the events of the day and noting anything that needed to be remembered and looked into. There was a knife missing, it seemed. Hard to imagine where it might have gone. </p>
<p>But amongst all those tidy, familiar thoughts the face of her son kept intruding. Her boy, here in front of her. Used to keeping tight control over her emotions, Jane could hardly keep her happiness from bubbling up. Only the knowledge that he must never know, that no one must ever see her pride in him, kept her quiet and calm.</p>
<p>She went to bed, and fell asleep with only a bit more difficulty than usual.</p>
<p>In the middle of the night she sat bolt upright in the bed. She knew, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, where the knife had gone, and why. How she knew she couldn’t have said, except that Robert Parks was her son and what she was certain he was contemplating had run through her own thoughts many and many a time in the past thirty or so years. Now, how to make sure he couldn’t throw his life away in haste and foolishness.</p>
<p>Wide awake, Jane lay in bed and turned plans over in her mind until dawn.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Day 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the light of day, Jane felt foolish about her revelation of the night before—until she saw Robert Parks at the breakfast table. He was too confident to be a servant. Too certain of himself as an individual. No, he was here for a purpose … and the only purpose she could imagine was to revenge himself on the father who had abandoned him.</p>
<p>Now that she’d had time to consider, Jane couldn’t blame him. William had promised the boy would be adopted. ‘Raised by a fine family,’ he had assured her. ‘Nothing left to do but deliver the child to them.’ Oh, Elizabeth had been right all along. Jane was a fool to have trusted him to keep his word, a fool to have let him take her child. </p>
<p>They had spoken bitter, bitter words to one another over it, she and Elizabeth, and the only words between them since were the ones Jane spoke when she went to that wretched room and told Elizabeth that she was coming to work as a cook at Gosford Park. It had cost her in pride to go to William and ask him to take Elizabeth on, knowing that this man she had once thought cared about her had fathered a child with her sister at the same time—but it had been worth it. At the cost of her own child, Jane had kept her position, her safety, and so she had that to offer her sister when Elizabeth’s child died of a fever.</p>
<p>No, Jane didn’t blame her boy for wanting to kill his father. She rather wanted to do so, too.</p>
<p>Well, why shouldn’t she?</p>
<p>The thought flashed through her mind so quickly she almost didn’t catch it. She stopped in the middle of the hall, stock still, to determine if she really wanted to go down that road.</p>
<p>How else did one stop a man determined on murder? Because he would do it. He would find a way. If possible, a way that wouldn’t lead to him. If not—she wouldn’t put it past Robert Parks to do it openly, if he had to. No, that must not happen, but the only way she could see to make certain it didn’t was to precede him. Whatever he planned, whenever he planned it, she would have to get there first.</p>
<p>Yes.</p>
<p>Strangely, having decided on murder was the most interesting thing Jane had thought of in ages. It was admittedly entertaining to be determining how best she could do it, how to manage so she wouldn’t get caught, so that nothing would come back on her. Mrs. Wilson, proud and cold and above suspicion. Yes, that would help, she thought.</p>
<p>Realizing that she was still standing in the hall, she moved on. Not to the kitchen, where she had been intending to go—Elizabeth would see that something was amiss with her immediately—but on down the hall to the servants’ dining room, to see that everything had been put away from breakfast.<br/>_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________<br/>Jane found it remarkably difficult to focus on her work that morning. Well, perhaps not remarkably. Perhaps it was to be expected that she would be distracted, knowing that her son—her son!—was in his room just a few floors up, contemplating the murder of the man her life had been inextricably bound to for decades.</p>
<p>The hunt would go on for some time. The luncheon wasn’t her province—Elizabeth wouldn’t thank her for interfering with it, anyway—and with everyone out of the house, she had little to do. Many things she could do, but nothing she must. Without consciously deciding on it, she found herself closing her ledger and climbing the stairs. She blessed her position. If she had been any lower in the servants’ hierarchy, she could never have simply gone to a visiting manservant’s room. But she was Mrs. Wilson, the housekeeper. Above suspicion.</p>
<p>She saw Commander Meredith’s valet in the hall, going back to his own room, and brazened it out. At least, she felt as though she was being quite obvious, but she doubted Mr. Meredith would give it any thought whatsoever that she had been seen in the hall.</p>
<p>Jane hesitated before she knocked, her heart pounding. It was difficult to breathe, and she needed a moment to compose herself before she spoke to him. Deciding he must not be in there, she forbore knocking and simply opened the door, feigning surprise when she saw him there, lying on the bed smoking a cigarette with a book in his hand. </p>
<p>He was a reader. Her boy. That simple thing touched her deeply—it was what she would have hoped to instill in him if she had chosen to raise him. Books had kept her sane all these years.</p>
<p>“Mr. Stockbridge. I am sorry to disturb you. I was just making my routine inspection.”</p>
<p>He gestured, as if to say ‘be my guest’, and went back to his book. Some part of Jane that wanted him to recognize her, to know her, was hurt. But why should he, after all? How would he have any way of knowing? He didn’t look like her, after all. He looked like—William, yes, a bit, but also her father, from what she recalled.</p>
<p>“So, uh, how are you settling in with Lord Stockbridge?” she asked him, before she could stop herself. It was unlike her, and she suspected he would know it.</p>
<p>He looked up at her. “Sorry?”</p>
<p>There was nothing for it. She was here, and she needed—she needed to know about him, before he left and she likely would never see him again. Jane moved farther into the room. “How are you settling in with Lord Stockbridge?” Hastily she went on, “Only I know that you haven’t been with him for long.”</p>
<p>There was another pause as he stared at her, clearly finding the question odd. “Not long, no.” He took a drag off the cigarette.</p>
<p>In her disappointment at the way he kept himself closed off from her, she said automatically, “I’m afraid smoking isn’t allowed up here.”</p>
<p>With a faint laugh, as if he found the rule ridiculous, he stubbed the cigarette out. Perhaps it was ridiculous—but she could imagine one of these foolish young people burning the house down with an improperly extinguished cigarette, and the rule kept them reminded that this wasn’t their home, in case they needed such a reminder. Many of them smoked in their rooms anyway, she knew, but she tried to discourage the ones she couldn’t trust as much as she could.</p>
<p>Behind the cigarette, she saw a photograph sitting on the bedside table. A photograph of herself. Much younger, of course, looking entirely different than she looked today, but still—he carried her photograph wherever he went. He hadn’t forgotten that once he’d had a mother, and he didn’t blame her. He didn’t hate her. If she kept nothing else when he left, she could keep that knowledge, locked up tightly in her heart.</p>
<p>She should go, she knew, but she couldn’t seem to tear herself away. “Um, well, I hope you’re finding everything to make His Lordship’s stay more comfortable. I hope we haven’t forgotten anything.”</p>
<p>“I can’t believe you forget much, Mrs. Wilson.”</p>
<p>“No. Not much,” she agreed. She turned to go. “Well, I’ll leave you to your book.”</p>
<p>As she closed the door, she closed her mind, returning to her life as Mrs. Wilson, the perfect servant. There was much to do, and she couldn’t afford to seem at all different from usual. Not today.<br/>________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________<br/>She had not counted on Elsie embarrassing herself at dinner. That Sir William was carrying on an affair with the girl was well-known, upstairs and downstairs, and Mrs. Wilson had thought they were rather good for each other, all things considered … and had made discreet hints about being careful. She didn’t want to see a girl under her care having to make the choices she and Elizabeth had.</p>
<p>Jane had heard the story whispered almost immediately—gossip fairly flew belowstairs. She rather admired Elsie for standing up for Sir William. The girl wasn’t wrong. For all that he had done terrible things, he had carried the entire Carton family on his shoulders all these years, and had built up an empire out of nothing.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, she wasn’t going to forgive him for giving her boy away, for abandoning him in an orphanage, or for sacking Elizabeth when she chose to keep her own child all those years ago. She had gotten back at him for Elizabeth by standing quietly with an impassive face until he agreed to take Elizabeth back as a cook because he couldn’t argue or shout Jane out of her determination … but for her son, for what his life could and should have been, to keep him from ruining the life that lay before him … Yes. Her resolution was unshaken.</p>
<p>Glancing at the clock, she calculated the time. William had gone to his study already, sulking over Elsie; the others would be leaving the dinner table soon, going into the drawing room. Mr. Novello would begin playing shortly afterward, and the rest of the servants would—discreetly, they imagined—hover in the doorway to hear the free concert.</p>
<p>Robert would take this opportunity, she was certain of it. She must be there before him.<br/>________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________<br/>Quickly, efficiently, she made the after-dinner coffee, adding to it enough from the bottle she had quietly taken away to do the job. There must be no doubt, no chance of his surviving.</p>
<p>Jane had expected to be nervous, but now that she came to it, she felt quite calm. She had always had an orderly, organized mind, and this task was one of many, to be approached step by step.</p>
<p>She moved carefully up the stairs with her precious burden, mustn’t spill so much as a drop, and let herself into the study, closing the door behind her.</p>
<p>“What do you want?” William barked as she came around behind him.</p>
<p>“Brought you some coffee.”</p>
<p>“If I wanted coffee, I’d have rung for it,” he snarled. His hand reached out and knocked the cup off the saucer. It smashed on the floor. </p>
<p>Jane started to clear it up, but he snapped at her again. “Leave that. Gimme some whiskey.”</p>
<p>Glad she had had the forethought to tuck the bottle into her pocket, Jane went to the side table where the things were set out, selecting a glass and adding several drops from the bottle. The whiskey might serve this purpose more efficiently than the coffee, she thought, decanting a reasonable amount into the glass. The taste might well mask the poison better. She added soda from the siphon and carried the glass to the desk, placing it in front of him. </p>
<p>He was fiddling with a gun, taking it apart and oiling it, as he so often did, especially when he was upset about something. Perhaps he’d been genuinely fond of Elsie, Jane thought—as fond as he had ever been of anyone, at least. </p>
<p>She had the satisfaction of seeing him lift the glass to his lips and take a deep drink from it as she was leaving the room. It would be enough.</p>
<p>It must be enough.<br/>_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________<br/>The kitchen staff were on the stairs, listening to the music. They got to their feet as soon as they heard her coming, and she stopped to chastise them, because that was what she would normally have done, singling out Dorothy as the one of them who was also under her supervision.</p>
<p>Elizabeth got to her feet. “Excuse me, but Dorothy’s under my jurisdiction as well, you know. And I say she can listen to a spot of music if she likes.”</p>
<p>Jane didn’t bother to respond to that. Elizabeth was quite right, after all. She moved with dignity down the stairs past them, letting Elizabeth have the victory. </p>
<p>The small battles didn’t matter, not tonight. Tonight she had won the war.<br/>_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________<br/>Jane hadn’t been able to settle down to anything. The waiting was too tense. When would they find him? How would they find him? She hadn’t been watching Robert tonight, but she knew that whatever he had intended to do, he had done.</p>
<p>And she had been there first, so no one could touch him. Never. Her boy was safe; the man who had betrayed them both was dead. It was hardly what she had expected would come of what had seemed an ordinary house party, but she couldn’t regret it. Robert’s handsome face appeared in her mind’s eye. No, she couldn’t regret seeing her boy, seeing how intelligent and proud he was. He’d never make a servant, but hopefully now he could find something better to do with his life.</p>
<p>The rushing of feet outside her room sent Jane’s heart leaping. She opened the door. “Is anything the matter?”</p>
<p>Dorothy looked at her with wide, fearful eyes. “Oh, Mrs. Wilson, it’s—it’s his lordship. He’s … he’s dead.”</p>
<p>Jane kept herself calm, reacting as closely to how she imagined she might under more typical circumstances as she could. “Dead? Are you sure?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, ma’am.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’d better go up. Is Mr. Jenkins there?”</p>
<p>“I think so.”</p>
<p>Jane left her room, smoothing her hair back with one hand. Whatever she found up there, she would need to look unmoved. </p>
<p>It was, she thought, an even race as to who was most composed and on top of things—Jane herself, or Lady Sylvia. As if they didn’t all know that Lady Sylvia had dreamt of her husband’s death in her heart for years.</p>
<p>Lord Stockbridge had called for the police, so Jane organized the servants while they waited. Lady Sylvia was keeping all the guests back, and Mr. Jennings was standing guard over the study. Very businesslike, they all were. If Jane stopped to think about it, she might be amused. She wanted to laugh, and she must not, or she would never stop.</p>
<p>The police called for Probert, and Mr. Jennings sent the rest of them to bed. The police weren’t interested in speaking with them tonight. Jane breathed a  sigh of relief. If anyone had seen her go into the study, or seen Robert go in, they would have said by now. Perhaps she was safe.</p>
<p>Elsie went by her, Elsie in her disgrace one of very few people in the house who were genuinely sorry William was dead. Jane told her to stay in her room. The last thing they needed was Elsie going to pieces. </p>
<p>Robert passed her as she stood there in the doorway. He was munching a cookie and she thought what a strange thing, to eat a cookie when you imagined you had just killed your father. As he went by, their eyes met. There was a cockiness in his, a pride in what he had done, and for just a moment, Jane wanted to tell him everything. But why take away his sense of accomplishment, after all? And for what? He wouldn’t thank her, she knew him well enough for that by now.</p>
<p>She let him go without a word.</p>
<p>The guests were all released for the night, and naturally expected the usual level of service as they went to bed. Jane had been a servant long enough that she didn’t find this unusual. </p>
<p>She waited for the rest of the servants to settle, avoiding a few curious glances from Elizabeth, before going to bed herself. But she didn’t sleep. She lay awake long into the night, staring up at the ceiling and going over the events of the day. It didn’t feel quite real. Not yet.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Day 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They took the body away very early the next morning. None of the guests were awake yet. </p>
<p>But Jane was. She stood at an upstairs window in one of the empty rooms in the servants’ quarters and watched as the pine box that carried so much of her life in it was loaded into a carriage. She didn’t regret what she had done, not for a moment … but it did feel odd that he was gone.</p>
<p>The police inspector arrived not long after. He seemed rather a bumbler to Jane, but that was just as well. No need for anyone too clever about. No. He expressed a wish to keep all the guests another day, but it appeared in his mind to be little more than a formality. Jane imagined they would all leave tomorrow and be glad of it.</p>
<p>One more day to have her son under the same roof. One more day before he vanished out of her life again.</p>
<p>As she came down the stairs, she saw Elizabeth in the hall. Her sister was standing there watching her approach, and something in her eyes—</p>
<p>“Has that inspector spoken to you, Mrs. Wilson?”</p>
<p>“No, Mrs. Croft, not yet. Has he spoken to you?”</p>
<p>“Yes, and right in the middle of the breakfast, too. Apparently—“ Elizabeth’s keen eyes were steady on Jane’s face—“it seems that Sir William didn’t die from being stabbed with the silver knife. He was poisoned.”</p>
<p>Jane kept her face very still, but she was certain Elizabeth knew. Possibly everything. Likely everything. “Is that what he said? How extraordinary. Imagine someone needing to be murdered twice in one night.”</p>
<p>She swept past her sister, but she was troubled. If they knew there had been a poisoning, they would stop looking for an outside thief, and they may take a closer look at the household. She imagined she was likely safe—few still remembered her early attachment to Sir William—but it would be inconvenient to keep the guests longer. </p>
<p>Later, as the kitchen staff were beginning on the lunch, Jane came from her room to find Robert in front of her. He had somehow managed to be burdened with Sir William’s dog, and had just been kicked out of the kitchen with it.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Wilson, where should I take him?”</p>
<p>Anywhere, she wanted to say. No one much liked the dog. “Perhaps Elsie might like to look after him. That would keep him out of the way.”</p>
<p>“I’ll go find her. Thank you.”</p>
<p>“Of course … Mr. Stockbridge.” She wanted to call him by his name, the name she’d given him, but that would never do.</p>
<p>She saw him again later in the afternoon. Mr. Jennings had brought the menservants together to discuss the problem of what to do with Mr. Weisman’s valet, who turned out to be nothing more than an actor playing a part, and now expected to be treated like a guest. Things did change as time went by, Jane thought. No one would ever have thought of impersonating a servant ten years ago; they wouldn’t have wanted to.</p>
<p>Robert volunteered to take care of Mr. Novello for the next night or so, and Jane wondered—did he have designs on going to Hollywood, being in the movies? He was quite handsome enough, if she said so herself. But she’d hate to see him turn his life that way. No, better a good solid job, something—respectable.</p>
<p>The day had gone more quickly than Jane had imagined it might, and although she had looked up every time someone walked past her door, the inspector never called for her. She felt an odd sense of outrage—she was the housekeeper, after all, second only to Mr. Jennings in the hierarchy. Although Elizabeth might have argued with that.</p>
<p>Still, the fewer questions she needed to answer, the better. And the more quickly the day went, the sooner they would all be gone. Not that she knew what would happen after that. Lady Sylvia didn’t like the country house, not the way Sir William had. Next thing you knew, she might sell it up, and then where would they all be?</p>
<p>It was a consequence Jane hadn’t foreseen … but it wouldn’t have changed anything about what she’d done. No. Robert was more important than her job, or Elizabeth’s, or that of any of the others. His life was what mattered, and she had saved it. </p>
<p>They were through the dinner and into the after-dinner coffee, with Mr. Novello playing again. They would miss his music, Jane thought. It occurred to her that she had not been given word as to whether all the guests would be expected to stay on tomorrow, or beyond.</p>
<p>She was relieved to see the constable in the servants’ room, because then she could ask him. He was having tea with Lady Stockbridge’s maid, and he didn’t rise when Mrs. Wilson came into the room.</p>
<p>“Constable? I’m glad I caught you. I assume the inspector won’t keep everyone beyond tomorrow, but I thought I’d better check with you.”</p>
<p>He frowned, thinking it through. Apparently it had not yet been discussed. “Well, we haven’t spoken to all the servants yet, so—“</p>
<p>The inspector himself came in through the hall door before the constable could finish his thought. “Ah, there you are, Dexter. Come on. We’re going home.” He stuck his pipe in his mouth.</p>
<p>Jane addressed her question to him. “I was just asking the constable how long our guests will be staying. Mrs. Croft has all the meals to arrange, and I know one of the housemaids is anxious to get away—“</p>
<p>“I don’t think there’s any need to worry about that,” the inspector told her, lighting his pipe and waving the match nearly in her face. “I’m not interested in the servants. Only people with a real connection with the dead man.”</p>
<p>Jane happened to be looking past the inspector at the constable as he said that, and there passed between herself and the constable an understanding of a sort—that the inspector was a bumbling fool who knew nothing about the way life worked in a house with servants, and that the constable might have his suspicions but he would never be able to do anything about them.</p>
<p>Still—how callous to assume that no one who worked for a person could have a real connection to that person. Never mind her own connection, or that of Elizabeth, in the doorway across the hall, or Robert, sitting by the door. There was poor Probert at the head of the table, fixing his lordship’s collar because it was the last service he could perform for him. Because for as much of a boor as Sir William had been … a bond developed when you cared for someone, when they trusted you. And that bond could sometimes be as real a connection as anything that happened abovestairs.</p>
<p>She said none of that. She merely thanked the inspector and turned to leave. She heard him announcing that all the guests could go, that it was enough to have their addresses, and that he wouldn’t stop until he had got his man, or some such grandiose pronouncement. Remembering the look on the constable’s face, Jane was certain that nothing would ever come of it. She had gotten away with it, then. Somehow the thought wearied her, when she would have expected to be relieved.</p>
<p>She was glad that they were all going … all of them but Robert, who looked up as she passed. He thought he knew what she was thinking, but he had no idea. Now he never would.</p>
<p>Late in the night, she heard Mr. Jennings singing. As she might have anticipated, if she hadn’t been so distracted by Robert—and by murdering Robert’s father—it had all been too much for him, and he’d been at his bottle again.</p>
<p>She found him in the servants’ room, lying flat on the table, the bottle in front of him. He flailed at her, his words incoherent, when she attempted to rouse him. Tying the belt of her robe, she went down the hall and, as she had expected, found Dorothy still awake and working. The only one in the house who was, as always. And naturally Dorothy was quick to come and help. The only one on the staff who didn’t know how Dorothy felt about Mr. Jennings was Mr. Jennings. </p>
<p>Between them, they got him to his feet and down the hall to his room and into his bed. They had less luck keeping him quiet along the way, but thankfully the only other person still down here was Elizabeth, and she knew his failings as well as they did. Dorothy balked at helping him get undressed, but eventually was prevailed upon, and they left him snoring.</p>
<p>Outside his door they looked at one another, and Jane was too tired and it had been too long a few days to conceal her impatience. “Dorothy. Get some sleep for once. The house won’t fall down if you get a decent night’s rest.”</p>
<p>Something in her face must have told Dorothy that she meant it, because she bobbed her head and said “Yes, Mrs. Wilson” and was off up the stairs almost immediately.</p>
<p>Jane returned to her own room more slowly, certain that there would be little sleep for her tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, when they were all gone. When he was gone. Then she could sleep. Perhaps.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Day 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a very great relief when the official word came down that all the visitors were planning to leave. Jane was ready to see what life would be like with Sir William gone. She rather expected nothing would change for a while yet. Lady Sylvia was fundamentally a lazy woman—it would be a while before she decided to be bothered about selling the place. And whoever bought it, unless they decided to turn it into a school or something along those lines, might well appreciate having a staff ready-made that came along with the house. </p>
<p>At the very least, Jane imagined that she and Elizabeth and Mr. Jennings would be the ones tasked with closing the place up. Her particular job was safe for a while yet. And if it wasn’t—she had some savings. Enough for … enough for what, really? A small house in the country, bothering with gardens and things? Perhaps not. </p>
<p>No sense in worrying about it. Not just yet. At least now she knew what to do with her savings when she was gone. She had marked it to go to Elizabeth, and if Elizabeth predeceased her, to a children’s hospital. But now it would go to Robert Parks, and whenever he received it, she hoped maybe he would guess why. There was a part of her that wanted to tell him now, to have that moment of recognition. But it wouldn’t do. It was too late by far, and it wasn’t what he wanted. He had what he wanted—his father was dead. He had been avenged. So had she, and so had Elizabeth. So had all the girls in their position over the years. Jane would have to be satisfied with that.</p>
<p>The Merediths and the Nesbitts went first, and the two young men, and then Ivor Novello and those two dreadful American actors. Elsie went with them, taking the dog. Jane imagined Elsie thought she was putting one over on the household by sneaking the dog out, but in fact, it was just what Jane had hoped for. No one else wanted to be bothered with it, poor thing. It interested her to see Elsie ride off with the Americans. Perhaps she would go to America and make films. It seemed quite in keeping with her abilities. Jane wished her well.</p>
<p>In order to keep her hands and her head busy, to keep from hovering wherever she might get a last glimpse of Robert—or be tempted anew to tell him things she shouldn’t—Jane hid herself away to sort through the linens.</p>
<p>In the bustle of everyone leaving, she imagined she wouldn’t be disturbed, so she was rather surprised when the Countess of Trentham’s maid, a fresh-faced Irish girl who would never make a servant, appeared in her doorway.</p>
<p>“You’re busy,” the girl said, making as if to withdraw again.</p>
<p>“No, no, I was just checking the linen rotation. If I’d have left it to the maids, the same twenty sheets would have been used until they fell into rags.” She marked down the set she had just put aside, expecting that the girl had come to say thank you, or drop off a gratuity from the countess, or some such innocuous chore.</p>
<p>Instead, young Miss Trentham shut the door behind her, standing there in silence as if she had something of importance to say.</p>
<p>Jane looked up at her, waiting.</p>
<p>“Why did you do it?” the girl asked.</p>
<p>Some part of Jane had been expecting that. She had recognized something in the girl, some ability to watch people and put things together, that seemed familiar. And there was a relief in someone knowing. But Jane expressed none of that. After holding the girl’s gaze for a moment, long enough for both of them to be sure she wasn’t going to deny it, she went back to the linens.</p>
<p>“How did you know it was him? Was it the name, or did you see the photograph in his room?”</p>
<p>So, she knew it all. Very clever of her. “Ah, yes, the photograph. It’s a miracle that survived. I remember his mother putting it into his blanket. I suppose she—she wanted him to have something of hers.” Why she pretended it wasn’t true, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she didn’t want anyone to see into her that closely. “Does he know what happened to her?”</p>
<p>“They said she died. Just after he was born.”</p>
<p>“Well, she didn’t die. She gave him away.” Jane got up, crossing the room for more linens. It was easier to talk when she couldn’t see the girl’s face. “He promised the boy would be adopted, he said he knew the family. Turns out we all clung to that dream, all us girls, a better start in life for our children. And all the time he was dumping them, his own children, in that Godforsaken place.” She resumed her seat, picking up her pen. “And I believed him,” she added. “I suppose it was easier that way. My sister certainly never forgave me for it.”</p>
<p>“Your sister?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Mrs. Croft. She’s my sister—didn’t you know? She kept hers, you see. It was very hard for her. She lost her job, and the baby died anyway. Scarlet fever. I made him take her back, and she never forgave me for that, either.” </p>
<p>“But even if Robert is your son, how did you know that he meant to harm his father?”</p>
<p>So. There it was. Out in the open. Jane looked up at the girl, almost glad for the chance to explain. “What gift do you think a good servant has that separates them from the others? The gift of anticipation. And I’m a good servant. I’m better than good. I’m the best—I’m the perfect servant. I know when they’ll be hungry, and the food is ready. I know when they’ll be tired, and the bed is turned down. I know it before they know it themselves.”</p>
<p>The girl sat with that for a moment. It wasn’t an explanation, not really, but Jane imagined this girl who spoke of her son by his first name, as though she knew him, understood.</p>
<p>At last Miss Trentham asked, “Are you going to tell him?”</p>
<p>“Why? What purpose would it possibly serve?” </p>
<p>“What if they find out what happened?”</p>
<p>“Not much of a crime to stab a dead man, is it? They can never touch him. That’s what’s important—his life.”</p>
<p>“And your life?”</p>
<p>Jane got to her feet again, to get more linens. Without looking at the girl, she said, “Didn’t you hear me? I’m the perfect servant. I have no life.”</p>
<p>Before Miss Trentham could say anything more, a knock came at the other door of the room and George opened it, telling the girl, “Her Ladyship’s leaving now, miss.”</p>
<p>The girl looked at Jane, who looked back, waiting. Calmly, she said, “Well, you should go now, Miss Trentham.” </p>
<p>Slowly, Miss Trentham turned and left without another word. No, she’d never make a servant in the long run. She was too curious.</p>
<p>Lord and Lady Stockbridge were also leaving, and with them, Robert Parks. Jane was certain she would never see him again. He wouldn’t want to stay a servant—he had only taken the job to get into proximity with his father, and now that was over. She felt—strangely, she felt sure she was going to cry. Something she rarely did, but when the tears came they were unstoppable.</p>
<p>In the hall on the way to her room, she ran into Dorothy, thanking her for her help with Mr. Jennings last night. </p>
<p>“You don’t have to thank me,” Dorothy told her. “You know I’d kill for Mr. Jennings if I had to.”</p>
<p>In her doorway, Jane stopped to look at her. Yes, she probably would. What there was in Mr. Jennings to inspire that kind of devotion, Jane wasn’t sure … but then, she had allowed herself to be swept off her feet by Sir William McCordle, so who was she to judge?</p>
<p>Turning away from Dorothy without a word, she shut the door behind her and sank onto her bed, letting the tears come, the grief for a life that could have been and the love of a son who would never know her.</p>
<p>The door opened, and she looked up, surprised to see Elizabeth there. Her sister closed the door, saying, “Don’t cry, Jane. They’ll hear you.”</p>
<p>Jane smothered her sobs with a hand over her mouth, her other arm wrapping around her waist against the spasms that shook her as she tried to hold her tears back.</p>
<p>“Come on,” Elizabeth said, not unkindly, as she approached the bed. “You did what you thought was best for him at the time. I see that now.” She sat down next to Jane.</p>
<p>“Lizzie,” Jane whispered. She hadn’t used that name in so long. “I’ve lost everything. I’ve lost him; now he’ll never know me. My boy. Oh, my boy!”</p>
<p>Lizzie put a hand gently across Jane’s back. “At least your boy’s alive. He’s alive. That’s what matters.”</p>
<p>Jane took her sister’s face in her hands, feeling anew the grief for Lizzie’s child, for the loss of the life she might have had, and the years of loneliness with they two had been nothing but strangers. And they held each other while Jane got herself under control, sisters again.</p>
<p>Perhaps it had all been for this, to bring them back together. Perhaps it had been for Robert Parks, to give him a chance at the life Jane had always wanted him to have. Perhaps, in the end, it had been for Jane herself.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>